


Cyan

by deadburritochortles



Category: Broken Reality Server - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Damn, Fire, Gen, Manslaughter, This wasn't supposed to be this sad, fucking hell, rewrite~, tHIS WASNT SUPPOSED TO BE THIS SAD, wow each tag just gets worse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:13:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26089234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadburritochortles/pseuds/deadburritochortles
Summary: Before he was homeless, he was a child (well, he still is, but...sometimes he forgets that).
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	Cyan

Before he was homeless, he was a child (well, he still is, but...sometimes he forgets that). A sad, _sad_ , disappointment of a child. 

He had the potential to be something brilliant, but in the end he was nothing but a dumpster fire—a desperate grab for warmth.

The first drop of gasoline to the unlit garbage pile is pitiful, in his opinion, because really, _that’s what made him so sad? Two-year-old him had the_ shittiest _priorities._

He’s in preschool, and it was someone’s birthday, some classmate’s that he didn’t dare approach (they were _cool_ , they had _gel pens_ and _crayons_ and _he heard that they knew how to spell their name! Even_ he _couldn’t spell his name, and he knew how to read! Barely, but it still counted!_ ). Things were going well, up until the cupcakes were brought out.

His mom had _said_ not to eat the food from school ( _What if it’s poisoned? Or, god forbid,_ cursed? _You don’t know how the world works, I have experience! I’m just looking out for my baby, okay?’_ In actuality, his parents didn’t want him to accept the food because they need, no _want_ , no, _need_ , no- his mind would never settle on that, to control what he eats, but he doesn’t figure that out for a _while_ ) but...everyone else is eating the cupcakes, and the frosting looks so pretty! _Maybe,_ he thought, _I could have a little taste? It’d be weird if I_ didn’t _eat it._

He prods at the cupcake.

He didn’t even have a snack today (his dad said that snacks are for people that _listen to the rules_ , so why should he have any today? ...Maybe he shouldn’t eat the cupcake? He doesn’t deserve it...but _everyone’s already doing it, he’ll look weird_ ), so it’d be okay, right?

He takes a bite of the cupcake.

It’s...sweet, and something else. Court doesn’t really know what it is, so he turns to the classmate next to him and asks, “What is this?”

They turn to him, grinning in that way that only a child eating cake could, “Chocolate!”

The word _chocolate_ is going through his head as he walks home. In all honesty, it’s kind of embarrassing to think about when he’s older _._

But, he still yearns for that childlike happiness.

No, he doesn’t, he still has that, _right?_ He has to, he’s a thirteen-year-old, he’s just...lying, he’s always lying.

That has to be it.

His two-year-old self swallows down the rest of the cupcake.

* * *

The drive home is quiet.

The radio is off, there isn’t any quiet chatter. Even his siblings seem to be silent.

Court happily picks the crumbs off his shirt. (Dear _God_ his hygiene was abysmal as a child).

His mother slaps his hand down.

“Sorry.” He’s still smiling, still feeling the afterglow of eating that cupcake, but the light has dimmed, and this is just a shadow of it.

His mother doesn’t respond.

* * *

His mother is the one to pull out the belt this time, and Court sheds a tear. Later, _much_ later, he would wonder if the taste of chocolate was worth it.

He’s standing in a corner, and the belt _keeps hitting him_ and _he can’t run away_ and his mom _won’t accept the apology he’s_ sorry.

When his mother is done, he looks to his brother and sister. He’s trying to smile when he looks at them, he wants them to think he’s _strong_ , he _is_ strong, he _is._

Neither of them look convinced.

He can’t help but feel ashamed.

It’s bad, according to what his sister says.

“What’s it look like?”

She contemplates for a second, “A bandage of pain.”

It’s an odd metaphor, so weirdly worded that he can’t even picture it.

Fitting for a four-year-old, future him would think.

* * *

The drop doesn’t actually get _added_ to the pile until that night.

Court can’t sleep, so he tip toes to the bathroom, and slumps over the toilet.

A rush of bile, one that was swallowed when his mom hit him, rushes up.

It tastes...sweet, and something else.

It tastes like _chocolate_.

He doesn’t notice the wisps of smoke coming off his skin.

He runs to the small room—in their small house, in the large, large, _large_ world that sometimes feels so far away that it’s like he’ll never get to it—that the five of them share.

Things would only be worse if his father found him.

* * *

The second drop is when he’s offered pretzels at school.

He doesn’t decline.

(Maybe the problem is that he doesn’t know how to. You can never say _no_ in his house, not even _I don’t like_. _I don’t like_ is _I don’t want_ and _no_ is something of dreams. If his parents want something, he gives it to them, he has to.)

Court crushes the pretzels beneath his feet when he thinks no one is paying attention. 

It smelt like smoke.

The teacher yells at him, and he tries not to cry. Last time he cried, he _knew_ everyone was laughing. They were _laughing,_ just like his mom did when she found his sister trying to open the freezer to get some ice—ice was the closest that any of the three kids could get to water, unless they made their parents proud, and they _would_ , they _have to._

( _“Look at where we are,” his mother would say, holding him close, like any mother would. Tightly, with the promise of never letting go—_ please say she’ll let him go, _please._

_She would have a sad glint in her eye, as though she’d looked at life through the gleam of tears. Her voice would be wet._

_“We could’ve been so_ happy _if we decided not to have you and your siblings. You’d think the least you could do is listen and give us the respect we deserve, wouldn’t you?” She’d laugh, poking him, wanting to see him laugh as well. He’d hate it, but he’d laugh anyway. He wanted his mother to be happy, his mother needed to be happy—she deserved it._

 _“Make your mark in the world, make us proud! We gave up our lives, our_ dreams _for you, so please, just do this for us? Listen to us, we just want to help you. That’s all we want from you.”_

_He would nod tiredly, far too tiredly for some kid._

_She would smile, and he would smile back._ )

So tears don’t shed, but the smoke alarm goes off when he opens his mouth to say sorry.

He feels his throat close up at the foreignness of the smoke, and makes sure to shut his mouth—it’s not like he’d say anything, he knows not to talk, never to talk, if you see something, walk away, say you’re sorry, walk away, don’t talk, you are sorry, don’t talk, he’s sorry, he’s so so sorry, I’m _sorry I don’t know why I did it I’m sorry I’m an idiot I should listen I’m_ sorry _why can’t I just work properly I can’t think please wait please I’m sorry just give him a second I can do it I swear I_ swear _please forgive me don’t hate me I’m sorry I’m sorry they said not to why didn’t I listen I should listen to you please I know you know better I’;ll listen and do what you ask I’m_ sorry-

It’d be better if he didn’t get into too much trouble.

* * *

The third, and last splash of gasoline, isn’t about him at all.

It’s about his brother.

His brother was always angry, even as a five year old, and he had knocked over their dad’s computer (his _work_ computer that they aren’t allowed to _touch_ , the one that their mom touched once that ended with a fight and the money for some bill torn to shreds and a laptop thrown at _someone’s_ back and their passports at the bottom of a bottle of lighter fluid and _where did you get lighter fluid, darling, let’s talk about this_ and a claim of _I could say this is domestic abuse, but I don’t, so_ stop and _you can’t tell me what to do, who do you think you are?_ ) in his tantrum.

There's a moment of silence, save for the metallic clink of a belt unbuckling.

It takes a second for his brother to be hit in the head by the belt buckle, and it takes another for him to be laying on the floor, eyes wide open.

Court doesn’t realize that he’s on fire, crawling towards their brother. He tries to cry, but the tears just turn to steam (later, when he’s older, he’d make a joke about _Steam_ punk or something stupid like that, but it is just that: later), clouding his vision.

He touches his brother, unaware—no, he had to be aware, he was aware, he _knew_ , it’s his fault, he’s sorry, he’s so so sorry I’m _sorry please please please Mom look please I’ll do anything_ —that he’s nothing but a ball of cyan and heat to everyone around him.

His sister screams.

* * *

His mom leaves him in an empty field that night.

He’s pushed out of the car, and the gravel cuts his back (it’s always been rather...well, _tender_ sounds like he’s a slab of oddly raised beef, but it’s the best way to describe it), and he feels a rock embed itself in one of the cuts.

He cries out, but no one hears.

His sister was in the car when he was dropped off.

She hadn’t been crying, hadn’t been doing much of anything. She had looked so small then, like the thought of being without _both_ her siblings was too much for her to bear, she didn’t want him to be gone too.

The thought that his sister would miss him made him feel warm.

He doesn’t know exactly what he’s done—yes he does, he knows what death is, he’s not an _idiot_ —but he can’t help but wonder if he deserves this or not.

He never does find an answer.

Perhaps that says something about him.

* * *

His mother comes back the next day, honking the horn almost...tentatively, as though she didn’t really want him to wake up.

“Thank your sister,” she says as he walks into the car, “She was the reason I came to pick you up.”

He nods tiredly. He couldn’t get a wink of sleep last night—he hadn’t been able to change clothes, so charred flesh had stuck to the hands that had touched his brother, its stench so _vile_ that he couldn’t even bother to relax, not to mention that he could be murdered, kidnapped, raped, drugged. That happened to people in those movies his parents made them watch, the ones that would teach them “valuable lessons about the world” and show them that they can’t trust people too easily, that family was the only thing you could trust. 

Family will always be the only thing you could rely on, you had to be kind to them, treat them well.

 _(Why would you say that to Mom? Mom is sad too, she’s so,_ so _sad. She’s lost so much of her family, so much of her_ life _, just be nice to her Court, really. I’m mad at her too. Why are you always being so rude to her?_

There’s never an answer, not one that he thinks is good enough, anyways. Family is important, it always will be, why did he have to mess it up? His parents wanted the best for them, they kept _him_ , the _murderer_ , they let him live, he needs to be _grateful._

He wishes he had been able to be grateful.

  
Sometimes, he wishes he wasn’t defective.

There’s something odd about that _sometimes_ , but he can’t place it yet.

Like most things, he probably never will.)

After minutes of driving—quiet driving, the windows up, the car running as smoothly as it could, Court’s breath shallow and as quiet as he could make it—they arrive at a small, dingy office.

It’s oddly unsettling, the beige walls of the outside, the untamed plants. Court can’t complain though—it’s not as though his house is any better.

“Mom, what are we doing here?” Court tugs at her hand as she gets up from the car.

She rips her hand away, though her gaze is kind, and she smiles.

He smiles back.

(He always does.)

“We’ve gotta get your quirk registered!”

His eyes almost sparkle with joy.

“Ah- you’ve got to stay in here, though. You haven’t had a bath yet, so you can’t come with me.”

The sparkle dims.

The car door closes.

He can’t help but look around a bit, and the tinge of fear he feels is almost concerning. It’s nothing but a middle of nowhere quirk registry, but the place feels like something out of a movie. He’s almost waiting for someone to try and break into the car, for an explosion to rattle the calm, for someone to appear behind him—he’s waiting for anything.

When his mother comes back, he breathes a sigh of relief.

Thank _god_ he didn’t die.

(His brain was filled to the brim with worse case scenarios since he was old enough to retain things—he can’t say it’s pleasant.)

She’s shaking a pill bottle in her hand.

“I couldn’t come back to check with you, but I named your quirk **_Cyan_** , that alright?”

He’s a little disappointed, because he remembers his sister talking about how she got to name her quirk **_Smoke Screen_** , and how cool it was to name her own quirk, and he’s about to say something about it when he notices the slightly smoldering car seat.

He tries to compose himself, and he calms himself down (it’s...odd, that a four year old was able to calm themselves down like that).

The smoke stops.

“Yeah, it’s okay.”

It’s not like there was any use complaining.

She pushes the bottle of pills toward him.

“Take these every day, okay? Every morning when you wake up, and every night before you go to sleep, take these.” She says it so sweetly that he doesn’t even ask what the pills are for (Quirk suppressants, of course, it’s not that hard to figure out). There’s no room for protest—there’s never room for protest, and there never will be.

His parents are always right, after all.

* * *

His sister accepts his thanks without hesitation or insistence that it wasn’t enough.

It’s refreshing.

He decides then and there that his sister is his favorite in their family.

He didn’t realize it at the time, but the options were pretty limited to begin with, so this was kind of inevitable.

* * *

His brother’s death has been ruled as _Untimely Quirk Activation._ But here’s the thing, it wasn’t _Court’s_ quirk activation.

People assumed that his brother had a fire quirk that was too much, and in the end, his body couldn’t handle it, resulting in death. His brother’s quirk hadn’t shown up yet at his time of death, so everyone agreed it was safe to say that it was a Quirk-related incident.

They just got the incident wrong.

Court has no idea how it happened.

He never asks.

* * *

Court’s in kindergarten, and the teachers are talking to him.

“We’ve heard that you’ve been taking kids lunch if they don’t want it.”

They say _taking_ like he’s _stealing_. He _asked_ them, and they had said yes, it was as simple as that.

“Oh, um, yeah!” He’s looking over his shoulder, trying to make sure no one was listening.

For some reason, he couldn’t bear the thought of anyone hearing this.

“Well, why?” Her tone isn’t accusatory, not in the slightest, but Court still wants to cry. _I’m sorry,_ he wants to say, _I won’t do it again, I’m sorry, I’ll try harder, I won’t do it, I’m sorry_. He wants to erase the feeling of shame from his memory and ask them for forgiveness ( _it’s far too easy to get an apology out of me_ , future him would think, _some things never change_ ).

He does none of that, and instead responds to her question, “What do you mean?”

“Well, why? Was it because you didn’t have enough food, because you didn’t like it…” She trails off.

“I don’t have enough.” He says it easily, and he can’t take it back, but he wants to, because if they tell his mom that he wants more food bad things are going to happen, he _knows_ it.

“Oh, I see.”

The next day at lunch, his teacher approaches him.

“So...do you have enough to eat?”

He stares at the almost empty lunch box, and looks straight into the teacher’s eyes, and says, “Yes.”

He’s angry, afterward. He doesn’t know if it’s at himself or not, though. _He_ was the one that was always hungry, and he had a chance to do something about it, but he _didn’t_.

He’s an _idiot_.

He tries not to think of it for the rest of his day.

He tries not to think of anything at all.

* * *

Court’s brother is fading from his memory, and he can’t stop it.

But he _needs_ to remember, the blood is on his hands, and he’s running away if he lets himself forget.

These are the times he wished that there was _something_ , _anything_ to jog his memory, a stain, a scar, _anything_ , but it’s not like he can find any baby pictures and the only thing he even slightly remembers is his brother’s charred flesh and a faint scream.

It’s terrible, and maybe he _shouldn’t_ want to remember, but he _needs to_ , if he doesn’t, then he’s forgiving himself—him, the _murderer_.

What would his parents think about him just letting himself forget?

He wonders what his sister would think.

* * *

His dad leaves.

There’s really nothing to say about it, there’s no fanfare. It’s some hour that one can never pin down as evening or early in the morning, and the air is cold outside, and the sky is that deep, deep blue that’s not on the edge of black, or even navy, just...blue.

It’s that atmosphere that’s so comforting—the darkness blanketing the house, so you’re able to see just a bit, enough to make out the trees outside, but not much else—that it’s almost unbelievable that his dad would dare try and do anything negative when the sky was like that.

The most surprising thing is that his _dad_ is the one that’s leaving. In every single one of his parents’ many fights, it’s always his mother yelling something along the lines of “ _I’ll leave, I don’t deserve this_ ” and even disappearing for a day or two, inevitably coming back while saying something like “ _My children need me._ ” It’s odd that his dad is the one leaving, without warning, just...going.

(Maybe, just maybe, the fact that his mother requires fanfare whenever she says she’ll leave says something.

It’s not like it matters.)

He’d end up liking his dad more than his mom, because at least his dad got angry less frequently. Though, when it does happen, things are much more catastrophic.

At least he found it in himself to leave - Court doesn’t ever think they’d be able to do that.

* * *

Court is a failure.

He isn’t enough—not enough to be forgiven, not enough to make up for his brother. He’s a waste. He couldn’t even be called a black sheep, he was of a different breed entirely. He tries, oh he _tries_ to be good enough, but he can’t help it. He isn’t like his sister, he can’t keep things in. He gets stressed, and he ignores things, and he’s an _idiot_.

He used to cry when he failed—used to at least have _that_ in common with his sister. But something _happened_ , and now he’s too stupid to even handle the basic things his mother throws at him. He doesn’t know why, but he’s _confused_ , he can’t bring himself to do a thing. He’s _useless_ , _lazy_. His mother just tries her hardest to get them to be more...advanced, because they have to be. And who _cares_ if he was one of the smartest in his class, he had to be _better_.

But he isn’t that anymore, because he’s too stupid. He _used_ to be so smart, used to be able to retain what his mother said, used to listen to her lectures that had words someone his age shouldn’t be able to understand, words that he _did_ understand because of course, he did. Because his mother knew that they had to be smart, so she did what she could. She wants them to leave stable, happy lives, so she hits them when they answer a question wrong, drags them from their beds at odd hours in the morning so she could drive around, speeding up every time one of them was on the verge of sleep while she spoke about morals. Now, he drags his feet, and when his mother speeds up the car, and the fear is _too high_ , he lets himself entertain the thought of sticking his head out so far that he gets smacked by a pole.

At least he wouldn’t have to hear her voice, then.

He’s stupid, and maybe him dying would work out. Maybe his mother would have a nice family where his sister was good and the murderer was out of the picture.

Things would be better if he was gone.

And he would leave, he really would, but he’s a _coward_ , and it’s not like he has anywhere to go.

(Not that he needed one. Rotting away in an alleyway seemed fitting for someone like him.)

* * *

He doesn’t know when he realizes it, there is and isn’t a moment he can pinpoint.

Every time he tries to remember, the scene changes. 

He’s sitting at a desk in fourth grade, and he has the passing thought that his mother isn’t right.

He’s sitting on their small, small couch and he’s realizing that his mother is a _child_.

They're taking a vacation for the first time in years, and he only felt safe when his mother left the hotel room.

He’s being hit by his mother after speaking out of turn—he _knows_ not to, but he knows about what his mother is talking about, he _knows_ and he just wants to help her understand better so she doesn’t spout out factually incorrect _bullshit_ —and while he’s trying to run under the bed, he wonders if all this is really okay.

He’s eleven years old and he’s talking to his sister, and she mentions that their mother just told her to ‘be strong’ when she talked about her bullying. She had good intentions though, she _does_ , so he doesn’t understand why that makes him so mad.

It was never a single epiphany, it _couldn’t_ be.

So of course he feels the need to help his mother get better—or is he reading too much into things? His mother is _kind_ , she does things for him, she loves him, and he’s just trying to find the bad. His mother has good intentions, she always has good intentions, she doesn’t want to hurt anyone, why is he thinking there’s anything wrong with that. She wants them to be safe, and she wants them to have happy lives. So many kids would want a mother like her.

Even with all this doubt in mind, he still tries.

His mother of course, doesn’t appreciate it.

“Get some exercise,” she says to his sister, “I mean, look in the mirror, c’mon!” She laughs, airy and light like his sister isn’t going to remember that, “I just want you to grow up and not be in pain.”

His sister looks down.

“You…” Court trails off—he wants to say something, he _does_ , but it’s not like he’s used to talking back, he’s not supposed to, “You could’ve said that differently.” He mumbles, scratching at his arm.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” He had never noticed it before, but the way she says that is so _childish_ , and Court lets a small smile grace his features—maybe, just maybe, he’ll be able to get through to her.

Of course, things don’t go as planned.

Court continues to talk back—he _shouldn’t_ he’s wrong and his mother is good and she didn’t do anything to deserve this he’s _sorry_ —but the one person who he thought would agree with him _doesn’t_.

“Look,” his sister says one night while they’re both sitting on the couch, “I know I get mad at Mom a lot, but that doesn’t mean you have to be angry at her too.”

Court stares.

“What?”

“You don’t have to be mad for my sake, okay?” She says it so sincerely.

Internally, Court laughs. For reasons he can’t begin to explain, a lazy smile unfurls on his face—it’s the same smile he has on his face when he thinks he’s reasoned with his mother enough that she’ll _listen_ , just before she realizes that she’s wrong, and instead of trying to fix it, or at least admit it, she reaches for whatever she can to hit him with.

(He’s been trying to keep his spirits high so he doesn’t _completely_ break down when he talks back to his mother, so he’s kept a mental record of the weirdest thing she’s hit him with—so far, it’s a charger.)

He wants to say something back—if he could do it to his mother, he could do it to her, she’d agree with him eventually—he really does, and he’s about to, because in all honesty he’s _angry_ , because she’s not the only one that has problems with their mother, so how dare she say that he’s just getting involved with something that doesn’t involve him. 

Instead, he says nothing.

He can’t, not to his sister. She’s the reason that he isn’t homeless or dead in some field somewhere, and she’s probably the only slightly pleasant family member he has left.

That doesn’t mean he listens to her though.

“I don’t like this attitude of yours,” his mother says one day while hitting him—he’d talked back just a little too much that time. “Where’s the old Court?”

He cracks—he wishes he could say he cracks a _bit_ , but he spends half the night choking down sobs in the bathroom because he can’t cry in front of them, because he needs to be _strong_ so they believe him and take him seriously because he _knows_ what’s going on here is wrong and he’s just trying to fix things and he wishes he was the old Court too and he wants his ignorance back and he’s _sorry he’s too irritable and rude and wrong and his mother just wants what’s best for them and for some reason he can’t accept that_ —but he doesn’t stop.

“Court, Mom doesn’t deserve this, just be nicer, She really just wants what’s best for us.”

He can’t believe that, for some strange reason, he _can’t_. There’s something about her that he can’t forgive.

“Dear, no one is going to like someone that always needs the last word. You’re _finding_ reasons to get angry. The only reason you haven’t _killed_ me is because of those quirk suppressants I gave you, doesn’t that say something, hm?” 

The only thing he retains from that is _No one is going to like him_.

It’s not like he expected otherwise.

He ignores the pit in his chest—he’s so surprised when he feels it, because he’s heard things like that described in books, but he didn’t think it was _real_ —when his mother says that.

He wouldn't like himself either, to be honest. He’s rude, and he’s wrong, and he needs to learn that not everything is terrible. But he’s already stated what side he’s on, and jumping ship now isn’t just cowardly.

It’d make him look stupid, and he doesn’t want that. He _knows_ he’s right, right? And he can’t double back now, even when there’s the sneaking suspicion that he’s doing more harm than good.

* * *

It’s late at night when it happens, too late. Their mother was talking to them, as usual, spouting nonsense. Ever since their dad left, Court’s realized just how much his mother’s head was in the clouds.

Of course, this led to a fight. And of course, things escalated.

“You know, no one’s going to accept you if you can’t even treat your own _family_ well.” She says it matter-a-factly, and Court believes her—he always does.

Instead, he snorts, “And?”

“And how are you going to treat everyone else?”

“Well.”

“Oh,” she raises her eyebrows mockingly—Court can’t help but cringe, does she think she _won?_ “And why is that?”

“Because they’re good people.”  
  


“And what about me?” She seems to falter at that—maybe that meant she was finally going to listen? He could get through to her, and he’d be able to look at his mother and see good things again.

“You _aren’t_ a good person.” He says it slowly, like he’s trying to explain to a child. And really, it’s simple. Good people don’t hit their kids, right? _Right?_

He still has his doubts, annoyingly enough—at least when it comes to him.

His mother has the decency to look offended.

“Oh.”

She stands up from where she’d been sitting.

“I see.” She grabs the keys, and she has tears welling up.

Half of him wants to shrivel up and die, because hey, he’s a terrible person, and the other half wants to _smile_ , because she deserves to feel that sadness, doesn’t she? _Doesn’t she?_

“I’ll...I’ll be going, it’s obvious I’m not wanted here.”

He wants to laugh.

He wants to scream.

His sister, despite everything, looks unaffected—Court tries to mirror that.

She seems bemused by that reaction, “Remember all that I taught you.” She lets out a sob.

Court feels a pang of guilt.

“You,” her breath hitches, “You guys were my entire life, and I’m sorry that I couldn’t be good to you.”

She pulls his sister into a hug, “I love you, remember that. I don’t know what I’ll do without you guys, but remember that.”

His sister breaks away, and walks out of the room.

Court has the feeling that she knows something he doesn’t.

“Court, remember what I taught you, okay?”

She walks towards the front door, car keys in hand.

“I’m sorry if you see the car in some ditch, since my life doesn’t matter anymore.” The phrasing is odd, saying something without using the actual _words_ —something his mother loves doing, because saying ‘No one will love you more than your family’ sounds better than ‘Your family is all you have,’ and semantics are easier to use as defence—but it shatters Court all the same.

He freezes.

She smiles.

His hands are shaking—he didn’t know his hands could shake, he thought it was another thing from the books, something far off—and he’s crying, and he’s _sorry I’m sorry please it’s my fault I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry-_

Another part of him screams that she’s _lying_ , his mother wouldn’t commit suicide, his mother has said so many times that people who commit suicide are _weak_ , and she just wants him to be guilty, and he shouldn’t be guilty because the world is within his reach now, but he can’t _help it_.

He stands there.

His mother walks out the door.

* * *

It’s the next day, and lays on the couch.

He couldn’t bring himself to walk out of the room that night.

A small part of him wants to laugh, because gee golly, he’s got _another_ victim under his belt.

The rest of him is too tired to do much of anything.

He doesn’t take his suppressants that day.

Despite the nausea—no doubt the calm before the storm that is withdrawal effects—he feels undoubtedly warmer than before.

The wisps of flame that he conjures are a brilliant cyan.

It’s far too pretty for the occasion.

His sister spots him wallowing on the couch, and sighs. “Mom’s going to come back.”

He extinguishes the flames, “...What?”

“She’ll come back. Like honestly, she comes back every time. She did this to dad too. She literally made me let her back in once.”

He breaths a small sigh of relief, though he isn’t completely convinced, “Oh.”

A small part of him is disappointed, because if his mother was out of the picture, isn’t that a _good_ outcome, his mother’s death could only be a good in the grand scheme of things, right? Even necessary if she decides to still not listen—if she doesn’t decide to be a better person, he’ll just have to find a way to be free, right?

He tries not to wonder why he’s sort of _okay_ with his mother dying.

The day draws on.

* * *

His mother came back a week later, a few days after his twelfth birthday. (I interrupt to say that I don’t know how to properly write the passage of time, figure that out yourself /j)

His sister whispers, “I told you so.”

He isn’t relieved.

He isn’t much of anything.

Instead, Court wants to get _out_ , he’s tired, ad he hates this, and he tried to fix things, but he doesn’t want this anymore, he wants his mom to _stop_ , he wants to be _happy_ , and free, and he wants to be as close to normal and positive and cheery as he used to be.

It’s not like he can voice this though. He’d spent so long trying to show that he would get his mother to _stop_ , to get her to see reason, and it’s not like he could stop now, not when he’s already tried so hard. If he gives up, his mother wins.

That is the worst case scenario.

Court thinks of living like this for his entire childhood, of never being free, of sooner or later going to the college his mother wants him to, of making her _proud_. It’s all _terrifying_ , he’s never going to get out, never going to be happy he’ll be trapped, shackled.

For once, he thinks he can finally figure out what his greatest fear is.

Living like this for the rest of his life.

His hands shake at the idea that he would have to live here for years, and then move out, and then talk to his mother, and _no no no no no no no no no no._

He can’t live like that, he _can’t, he’ll be wasting away, he’ll be a shell, and he’ll be like his mother, and no and I can’t deal with this I can’t, not for the rest of my life, not like this not like this._

Would...would life really be worth living if this is what he had to go through?

There were only five solutions, at least to Court.

He’s so dead set on finding a solution that he even writes out a list.

  1. Find a way to get Mom to stop (unlikely)
  2. Run away (I’d need to get sis on board though ‘sis’, who am I?)
  3. Find a way to get Mom to leave (she’ll probably just come back later, fucking asshole)
  4. Kill myself 
  5. Kill Mom (Last resort)



He doesn’t even attempt to do number one, he already knows that his dearest mother thinks she’s completely in the right.

Number two it was.

Convincing his sister was...difficult.

“You’re an idiot.” She states when he lays out his plan.

“Don’t tell me you’re okay with living _here_ for the majority of your _happy_ years.”

She sighs, “We just have to deal with it, and then you can cut Mom off when you move out, it isn’t that hard.”

 _Oh_ , Court thinks, _I...guess I’m leaving without her._

Guilt gnaws at him.

He lets it.

He waits days, waiting for the withdrawal systems to finally wear off.

His mother doesn’t notice that he isn’t taking the suppressants, thankfully.

The day finally comes.

He’d planned to run around evening, actually. He didn’t want it to be too late, and end up shaking in an alleyway afraid and confused, so he waited until sunset rolled around.

Court grabs the bag he packed and sneaks to the back door.

He doesn’t make it fast enough.

“Court, what are you doing?” HIs mother stands up from her spot on their couch.

He freezes, before walking faster—these were the times that he wished the back door wasn’t in the damn _kitchen_.

His mother throws up a hand.

Columns of smoke appear, and Court’s eyes widen—his mother hadn’t used her quirk in a _while_.

He runs to the kitchen, throat tightening, eyes watering. 

He has a fire quirk but he can’t handle smoke? 

Fuck _that_.

His mother grabs at his bag, ripping it from his grip.

He keeps running through the thick smoke, smacking into a wall. 

He hears his glasses crack.

_Motherfucker._

He flails his hands around, and guesses that he’s somewhere in the kitchen.

He just has to get to the door.

Before he could even move, his mother grabs his hair.

 _Bastard_. (Wow he was cursing…a lot during that)

Still not used to using his quirk, he grabs at the first thing his hand comes to contact with.

A knife.

She glares at him, as if to say 'Sure, but what are you going to do, _stab me_?'

Through the thick haze of anger, sadness and desperation, humor cuts through, a reprieve from the severity of this moment, and he lets himself chuckle.

"Well, if you insist."

He sees red.

It takes so many stabs for her to go down. He knows anatomy, a little bit of it, so he vaguely aims for her chest and hopes for the best.

It is, apparently, very difficult to stab someone to death.

The articles about people with over 10 stab wounds start to make a shocking amount of sense.

He lets out another laugh.

His mother's face is...well, her mouth is in an O-shape, and she looks so offended that he happily lets a smile grace his features.

It only stays on for a second.

He is a murderer, just like his mother's said for years, holding it above his head like a crown just about to be placed on an heir. 

She knew that one day he'd have to wear the title.

His lips quirk down.

 _That's a problem, huh_. He can't help but feel light and airy, even though he's murdered someone. (It’s not like he hasn’t done it before.) The shackles are finally off, he's free, the world's within his reach. Maybe his sister will be happy, she probably doesn't want to stay in this hell hole for years either, right?

He can’t tell if he’s conflicted or not, because honestly, he’s evenly split down the middle—crushing guilt, ready to overtake every bit of him, and elation, so grand that even the blood on his hands doesn’t seem real.

Tears are streaking down his face.

He’s laughing.

His hands are shaking.

He’s smiling.

The stench of blood stains the air.

He feels like he can finally breathe easy.

He wonders if this is what going insane feels like.

He grabs his bag from where his mother dropped it.

Court walks out the door.

(He won’t let himself see his sister, not when he’s killed two people, not when both those people were family.

She was better off without him.)


End file.
